


Bauble

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-11
Updated: 2002-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: all four of the hobbits were taken by the Uruk-hai at Amon Hen.  Subsequent events adjusted accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bauble

**Author's Note:**

> My response to viggorlijah's [One Ring challenge](http://www.oggham.com/ring).  
> rated R for violence and disturbingness... yeah.

Killing was easier than he had thought; fear could be overcome in a single knife-stroke, like a carefully placed word or tone of voice. And Saruman had fallen as easily as any man (or any animal), although a pile of foul ash rather than decomposing flesh marked his passing; ash and a bitter scalding on Gríma's hand where the blood splashed briefly from the wizard's throat before hissing away. Burning Gríma's skin yet steaming off the black sphere the Istari had been gazing into, its inky depths now resting dormant on the pedestal in the throne room.

My _Lord_. Saruman had insisted on being addressed; as if Gríma were one of his simpering orcs, to be controlled through fear and meat rather than cunning word-craft and persuasion. Worm_tongue_ Gríma might be called -- and he grinned toothily at the thought -- but he had a snake's fang whose poison was as deadly as any warlord.

_Lord Gríma. King Gríma. Gríma, King of the Mark. Gríma, Lord of Middle-earth._

He hissed at the thought, his steady gait lurching a little as he prowled the lower levels of Orthanc. Not King of the Mark. Not Lord of Middle-earth. Not yet. First, the prize he wanted above all others . . . To possess and destroy such beauty and spirit . . . To prove to her, to _all_ of them what power he had, what use their tainted nobility and pride was in comparison to his strength of mind and thought . . .

He glanced around nervously. Control. He needed to be in control. For surely now having slain Saruman more power would manifest and become Gríma's instead; the wizard's staff remained, and the safe-hold of Orthanc itself. And Gríma had already dealt with the Uruk-hai, controlling them to an extent . . .

The Uruk-hai. They had returned to the lower catacombs (though 'pits' would be a more appropriate word, he thought disgustedly), the harsh clatter of the great captain's steel-shod feet had long since stopped ringing throughout the immense chambers. He had controlled them, yes; though perhaps not through any inherent power or fear they held in him. Association with their master had saved his life; association with their master and his gift of food -- meagre as it was, it had appeased them, at least for now.

One thought spurring on another, Gríma rubbed his hands together and turned his pacing more purposefully towards an adjoining chamber. The halflings. Surely some secret of Saruman's power could be unlocked through them; or so he had thought at first -- He was not a fool, though the wizard told him little. He knew a link existed between the grief and despair he had perceived in Mithrandir - Gandalf Grey_hame_, come to Rohan to plead futilely with inbred royalty - and Saruman's intensive efforts to raise an army. He knew enough to leave Rohan of his own volition, knew enough to come to where he would most likely be a part of the victorious party; and knew enough of Saruman to perceive that he wouldn't waste his time and indeed, his _army_ on these . . . _creatures_, unless they had something he considered valuable.

For indeed _creatures_ I seemed they were -- a poor fare for the huge Uruk-hai, but obviously quite lacking in any form of logical or intelligent thought, minds revealed only as blood-soaked mush under skulls cracked open by Uruk-hai teeth, limbs only white bone and red meat like any pig or lamb. _Alive and unspoiled_, Saruman had commanded, and yet Gríma couldn't see the logic in it -- surely they can't have been carrying _information_ \-- but he was no fool: all that they had carried were saved from becoming orc-filth; and only with the three smallest had he rewarded the band of returning Uruk-hai. Perhaps, if there were any conscious thought at all in the mind of the one remaining - who had seemed a little more alert than the others - its tongue would be loosened by the devouring of its kin. If it had any mind at all; surely it would take up its only option and offer up any information it might even unwittingly hold.

Though that seemed an unlikely option, Gríma decided as he entered the chamber to find two piles of _something_ marring the pristine surface of the floor. They became clearer as he walked closer -- a pile of filthy rags, it seemed, and a smaller pile of filthy flesh -- ah. Living still, though, shifting slightly with small, uneven breaths, face pressed to the floor and skin pulled taut over protruding bones. The eyes were unblinking, though he could hardly tell if they were open or not, and the creature's lack of movement was explained as Gríma came even closer -- another bone was protruding beyond flesh this time; white and red at contrasting angles to the line of the creature's shin.

"Who are you?" Gríma asked in a low, insistent voice; having enough sense and knowledge of mad animals not to come even close enough to nudge it with his foot. The creature - it was a _he_, Gríma could see now - didn't answer, didn't move. "What do you carry?" Still no response. "What do you know?"

Madness, then, Gríma decided; or mindlessness -- this one's skull contained a foul mess much like the others' had -- and he stepped back a few paces, not taking his eyes off the creature until he was crouched before the other pile, and was forced to looked down to examine the takings.

Gríma grimaced; beginning to sift through the pile fastidiously, casting aside remnants of torn grey material, scraps of something that might have been white, once, and - he picked this up between thumb and finger - a scarf that was perhaps once green or grey, now dark and sticky with blood. . . Nothing, then. He dug his hands a little deeper, then, feeling something cold brushing against his hands; he gripped something cool and fluid -- a small mail shirt, made of some metal not-silver and not-steel, seeming to chime as he shook it. It was pretty, yes, and looked as if it came from a King's ransom, but had this been what Saruman had been so eager to possess? Surely not.

Gríma pushed aside the rest of the similarly soiled rags in exasperation, then froze, hearing the cool slide and _clink_ of something metal against the hard marble. He thrust his hand down further then drew it back just as abruptly with a snarl, examining the bead of blood from the stabbing of something sharp on his finger. He dug through the remaining rags more carefully; coming first across something green and gleaming -- a brooch with a sharp pin, which he scowled at then flicked away -- and a chain. Curious, but still cautious from the unexpected bite last time, he began to carefully pull the chain; hearing something heavier rattle on the end of it as he slowly drew it out from under the rags. Here, now, he had it, it was --

Something suddenly hit his chest and he was propelled backwards, hitting the floor with a powerful enough impact to knock the breath out of him until he could wrestle against it; roll over onto the writhing, clawing thing; claw right back and then grip a fist into its hair and slam its head against the floor with enough force to elicit a satisfying _crunch_.

Panting; Gríma rolled over onto his back and then lurched up to a half-crouch again, laughing a little with the shock of exhilaration. The body at his feet was entirely motionless now, except for the thick red pool slowly expanding and spreading out on the floor; and yes, that was madness slowly filming over in the dull blue eyes. Gríma nudged the body a little with his foot, seeing the matted hair slowly drowning and hearing the scrape of crushed bone against marble.

His hand was still clenched in a fist, he realised; and some blood had splattered up onto the lingering burn of previous blood; grimacing in disgust, he eventually wiped it reluctantly on the thigh of his breeches, and opened his fist.

A ring - a simple gold band; rather dull, really; and he looked down at the still figure again in slight surprise before his lips curled into a mocking smile. Jewellery? An heirloom? But surely these creatures would not have such organised tradition, would not have the _intelligence_ to perpetuate such a custom as the heirloom. A love charm, perhaps? A keepsake? It surely showed the logic and intelligence of this race that this creature would risk its _life_ for a . . . a _bauble_, and yet look on while its kin was devoured.

Gríma smiled again, closing his fist around the ring once more and shoving it into his pocket, turning to leave and heading for the higher levels of the tower. Well, it was his now. As was Orthanc, Isengard . . . All within it and without -- orc armies and catacombs, _power_. He would have Eowyn, he would break that pride and spirit, crush it like an eggshell-skull in his fist. Middle-earth would recognise him then. He would have power.

Lost in his exultant musings, Gríma Wormtongue absently slipped the simple gold band onto his finger. Nine Nazgûl burst forth from Barad-dûr, wheeling about with a rending cry and in a storm of wings flew westward, to Isengard.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/6383.html


End file.
